


Let Go

by kalakirya, teprometo



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Community: pod_together, Friendship, Masturbation, Negotiations, Other, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/pseuds/kalakirya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Sherlock knows Joan better than she knows herself; he's just paying closer attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> For this pod_together project, teprometo wrote the story and kalakirya recorded the podfic. We worked together to form the basic idea, and from there, we each did our respective parts, checking in with each other for feedback several times along the way, each modifying our output based on the other's recommendations. It was a great experience. Would recommend.
> 
> Many thanks go to [flammablehat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat) for betaing the fic. Even without knowing the canon, you did a really lovely job of seeing inside this fic and pointing out its flaws.
> 
> As always, many thanks to [paraka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paraka) for podfic hosting!
> 
> The podfic runs 24:34; the mp3 is 20MB and the podbook 14MB.

[MP3](http://kalakirya.parakaproductions.com/podfic/let%20go%20-%20written%20by%20teprometo%20and%20read%20by%20kalakirya.mp3) [M4B](http://kalakirya.parakaproductions.com/podfic/let%20go%20%20-%20%20written%20by%20teprometo,%20read%20by%20kalakirya.m4b)

* * *

Joan had known Sherlock long enough to understand that nothing was private around him, and nothing would go uncommented on. Sherlock left laxatives on her nightstand when he blamed her mood on constipation, and set her menstrual cup on the corner of the sink when he thought she’d need it. After two months of ignoring it out of spite and waking up with stained panties, Joan relented and admitted that Sherlock was as good as the pill for predictable periods, minus all the hormones that made Joan a particular brand of crazy (though Sherlock was certainly his own). She had even grown to find these gestures sweet in their way, demonstrative of his deep concern for her. It was a unique friendship, unlike anything Joan had experienced before, and she knew that Alistair was right; her life would be lacking without Sherlock.

The sticking subject for Joan was sex. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with sex; she’d swapped the filthiest details with her friends for years. But Sherlock’s entire perspective on sex, on its interaction with a body and its psyche, seemed fundamentally skewed in a way Joan wasn’t quite comfortable with.

He knew when Joan wasn’t having sex (which was always, because men had gotten somehow less palatable in the past year), and more unsettlingly, he knew when Joan was (or wasn’t) masturbating.

She didn’t dare watch porn. Not with the way Sherlock undoubtedly monitored their internet connection. And she’d lost a lot of her creativity, her ability to concoct satisfying fantasies to accompany the motion of a hand. Her fantasies now were all frantic, anxious imaginings of cases gone wrong, the need to defend herself against an attacker, to solve a case without Sherlock’s guidance. Her life lacked sex, and Sherlock had determined that this was a problem.

“You need to start masturbating again,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of noodles.

“I’m going to ignore that.” Joan kept her eyes trained on the file in front of her, examining the bruising on a dead CEO’s shoulder.

Sherlock shuffled up beside her and splayed his hand across the photo, turning his face towards her and loudly repeating, “You need to start masturbating again.”

“Tell me how that’s any business of yours,” Joan said, dropping the file to the table and crossing her arms.

“Your work,” Sherlock said, his mouth pulled down into one of his grimaces. “It’s sloppy. I can’t use you while you’re this ….” He waved a hand through the air, finally settling on, “Distracted. Sex enhances focus. If you’re not copulating, I need you to be supplying yourself with regular orgasms.”

Joan felt sudden anger well up in her and she whirled around to glare. “Let me make something clear to you, Sherlock. You don’t get to have _needs_ about my body.”

“Let me rephrase,” Sherlock said, calm and seemingly unaffected by her ire. “You need to masturbate because it will make you healthier. You forget about your own needs when faced with someone else’s. It’s a character flaw.”

Joan rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s characteristic dismissiveness.

“You help me stay away from drugs,” Sherlock said, surprisingly earnest. “I would like to return the favor and help you achieve orgasms.”

Joan thought her jaw may have actually dropped. “I don’t want to have sex with you, Sherlock.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said as though the idea was preposterous. “Don’t be silly.”

Joan was growing increasingly irritable—she knew she was—but she refused to allow her sexual habits to become a part of their lexicon, another distraction from Sherlock’s recovery, another piece that didn’t quite fit their patchwork of companionship, friendship, and partnership.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason I’m not comfortable doing that here is because I know you’re going to analyze every detail and give me a full report later?”

Sherlock was silent a moment, rocking back and forth on his toes. “Would it help if I were present for the act itself?”

Joan scoffed. “Yeah. Give me a break.”

“Perhaps my observations would be less disturbing for you if I were a direct witness.” He smiled that peculiar downturned-lipped smile of his, and Joan could not believe it.

It was ridiculous. Sherlock was ridiculous. This was the point in the conversation where Joan shook her head in disbelief and went upstairs to read, because Sherlock was being completely unreasonable.

But that night, Joan dreamed Sherlock had her bent over the couch, fingers clever where they worked at her clit, thumb teasing down her lips, pressing lightly against her hole but never in. She woke up equal parts horny and horrified, and her run that morning was extra-long.

 

 

***

“I brought toys,” Sherlock said, holding the final syllable a bit too long. He plopped a paper sack down on the foot of Joan's bed, and she just stared at it, humiliated. She had agreed to this … _exercise_ , but Sherlock still managed to surprise her with his childlike enthusiasm and lack of shame. Sherlock shifted his weight a few times and then grabbed the bag again, overturning it above the bed, vibrators and dildos thumping down across the comforter.

“Sherlock,” Joan whined, glancing warily at the gigantic purple anal beads.

“Fresh out of the package and disinfected,” Sherlock said, clearly proud of himself. “The woman at the shop recommended the green one, but of course you’re welcome to experiment.”

Joan sighed and leaned forward, assessing the selection. It was impressive and thoughtful, a collection of toys meant to appeal to different body types. She glared up at Sherlock, and he looked back, not getting it.

“Can you turn your back? I’d rather you didn’t know what I pick.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, surprised, turning around and clasping his hands behind his back.

Joan snatched up the green dildo, which looked to be the best texture and shape, and grabbed the purple vibrating wand. She stuffed them under the covers and then threw the rest back into the sack, folding the top shut and sliding it under the bed. She lay back in the bed and breathed deeply, hands sweaty where they clasped the toys, blanket pulled up to her chin. She considered backing out for a long moment but eventually gave Sherlock the okay. He took his seat at the foot of her bed.

Starting was the hardest part. The anxiety and vulnerability were intensified by the fact that she wasn’t even aroused yet. This was all too weird, and she felt oddly outside of herself, observing her absurd life and wondering how she’d ended up here.

The room filled with the sounds of sex, wailing and grunting and horribly cheesy dialogue that made Joan frown in horror.

“What is that?” she demanded.

“Mm, I’ve observed that women are often aurally stimulated.”

Joan raised an eyebrow at him.

“With their ears,” he clarified. Joan glanced down the bed to see him waggling his phone at her.

“There is nothing sexy about this.” She stared at him, unbelieving. “This is maybe the grossest porn I have ever heard.”

Sherlock nodded and looked back down at his phone. “Everyone has different taste,” Sherlock muttered. “You’ve got to be certain.”

The horribly embarrassing sounds were replaced by breathy moans and grunts, and Joan tensed up, a subconscious defense against becoming aroused in this unusual situation.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely curious.

“Better,” Joan agreed at length.

She eased herself into the sounds, evidence of others’ pleasure, a reminder of the way she could feel when she wasn’t so bogged down with responsibility.

“You’re beginning to relax,” Sherlock said, startling her. “This is good. But you’re … wincing. You’re struggling with the embarrassment of activating the vibrator, fearing my potential judgment and disgust.”

So that was spot-on.

“But your worries are baseless, Watson,” Sherlock assured. “I see no merit in shame. There is nothing deviant about self-satisfaction, and if there were, it would only pique my interest. I am here to facilitate your rediscovery of sexual pleasure.”

“Right,” Joan said, not placated.

“Are you comfortable with my giving you orders?” Sherlock said, voice carefully neutral. “I propose that your anxiety would diminish greatly if the decisions today were mine, absolving you of responsibility for them.”

Joan sighed and considered. He was probably right, but there was something niggling and uncomfortable implicit in his request. “On the condition that you don’t refer to any of my actions as relevant to you. And don’t talk about my genitals.”

“I will meet your terms,” Sherlock said. “Now turn on the vibrator.”

Joan gasped and did as she was told, the whirring of the vibrator humiliatingly loud in the room.

“Good,” Sherlock said. “Now place it between your hips.” Joan did. “You now have the freedom of repositioning it whenever you’d like without alerting me.”

Joan laughed. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t miss anything.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said, and something about the _way_ he said it stung her low, gave her the first real sense of ache for touch. “But your comfort is my top priority right now, and any gestures I can make to enhance your experience are worthwhile.”

“Okay,” Joan said. Relaxing a bit, she let the steady vibration and the gentle moaning emitting from Sherlock’s phone make her heart beat faster, heat her skin. She tried to remember the things she found sexy: broad chests, hot breath down her spine, the rare man who knew when to take it further without pushing, without being asked.

“You’re flushed, breathing deeply,” Sherlock said, voice low. “Fantasizing. You don’t notice it, but your face—it’s very expressive.” Joan felt the heat of embarrassment flood her. “You haven’t done this on a while. You’d forgotten how nice a fantasy can be. Joan Watson doesn’t fantasize about men who are easily distracted by their own needs. You probably don’t think of anyone in particular, but he’s strong, firm, respectful.”

Joan glanced down the bed at Sherlock, and his posture was relaxed, his hands resting inertly on the arms of his chair. He looked at her like she was a puzzle, a murder scene, something he had to figure out.

“I hate the way you’re looking at me,” she said, unsettled by how differently they experienced this.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said, firm.

And Joan could have felt disrespected or even threatened, but she didn’t. She _trusted_ Sherlock, and isn’t that how she’d gotten here in the first place? Something shifted when she closed her eyes and let them stay that way. When it was just his voice and not his stare, it was easier to let go, to listen and allow herself to be swayed and convinced.

“You don’t know it consciously, but you’ve moved the vibrator lower. Soon, you’ll move it all the way, but I predict that it won’t satisfy you. It’s been a long time, and you’re a thorough woman. You’ll want more.”

Joan bit back a smile and inched the vibrator lower, testing his theory. He was right; it was too much too soon. She wanted a tease. She wanted it to feel like a real fuck, aching buildup, the muted feeling of being filled, ignoring the clit until she couldn’t take it, until she needed it. She wanted to want; it had been too long.

“The green one,” Sherlock said, as Joan pushed the dildo between her legs, slipping it down across her lips and back up, gathering the wetness and spreading it around, making herself filthy with it—she’d always loved this.

“You’re getting short of breath. You’re teasing. You’re very efficient elsewhere in your life, but here, you take more time. You allow yourself to be sloppy.”

Joan let herself slip, pushing the tip of the toy in just slightly, allowing Sherlock to observe her without feeling a need to protect herself from his judgment. She played a few moments longer, making herself more hungry, needing to be filled, dragging the dildo across her hole, letting it catch and then pulling it away.

“You’re biting your lips. You want to vocalize your experience,” Sherlock said, almost bored. “You still aren’t confident enough to let go.”

Joan pushed the dildo in all the way and squeezed around it, and she hadn’t realized how much she missed this, being stretched tight around something foreign. She moved the toy in and out, pulsing it inside. Slowly, gently, she brought the vibrator down to her clit, just long enough to get that sharp spark of need that would have her whimpering under normal circumstances.

“You don’t trust me not to see you differently once I know what you sound like,” Sherlock said, and it resonated in Joan, stark and true. “You don’t trust that this experience won’t change our partnership. Here you are, fucking yourself where I can see you, but you won’t be heard. You’re a product of the patriarchy, my dear Watson.”

“Fuck you,” Joan spat, but it came out with a moan.

“If I were one of your girlfriends, you’d be expressing yourself fully, not just with the parts of you that are approved for the male gaze,” Sherlock said, low and seething. Joan fucked herself harder, biting her lip.

“You’ll give yourself a headache if you keep your jaw clenched like that.”

Joan sighed and tried to relax, her motions slowing, becoming more purposeful.

“You’re too controlled, too bound up still in what’s expected of you, what’s acceptable for you,” Sherlock said, and his observations were too close, too wound up in her entire upbringing and the things she still couldn’t figure out how to do, even after years of concerted effort.

“Heaven forbid you enjoy this, Watson. This is your show, and you’re letting me dictate the rules.”

“Bullshit,” Joan groaned. “My restraint is my decision.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said. “Your restraint is about what you fear from me. It can be a powerful tool when exercised willingly, but this is hurting you. Let go.”

That only succeeded in making Joan tense up. She removed the dildo, suddenly too aware of her surroundings, that the porn recording had stopped, that she was too warm under the blankets, that her panties dug into her where they were shoved to the side. And that Sherlock was sitting at the foot of her bed proving all of her suspicions about the things he was able to see in her.

“This is not an arousing experience for me, Watson,” Sherlock said. “No offense to you, of course. This encounter is not for my sexual benefit, so you would do well to focus on yourself, not me.”

Joan grit her teeth, and Sherlock repeated, “Let. Go.”

“You want me to let go?” Joan said finally, fed up. “Well, first of all, I don’t hide in my bed.” She kicked off the covers, frustration edging out the anxiety of exposing herself. “I don’t use two-hundred-dollar toys, and I don’t stare at the goddamn ceiling.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, looking her in the eyes. “Do this your way.”

Joan rolled off her panties and reached a hand between her legs, turning her face into the pillow as she felt herself. This was what she needed, the touch of her own skin, slick and visceral. She watched as she slid two fingers inside and ground her palm into her clit, a pulsing movement she’d perfected through the art of knowing her own body.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said. “This is who you are, Watson. Hear yourself.”

Joan bent her knees and braced her feet on the bed, fucking against her hand, and finally, she let go. She let out a long groan, and it sounded good. Sherlock’s words focused her attention on how her identity was linked to the way she rubbed her clit, rough and circular and _hers_. No one else could touch her this way, could make her feel these things, and that was _valuable._

She wanted him to call her Joanie and to never call her anything but Watson, her needs for intimacy and careful distance warring with each other as his voice sunk inside, wresting pleasure from the core of her. She found her rhythm and breathed into it, sharp moans perforating the air around her, and Sherlock kept her tethered, kept her safe in relearning herself.

She didn’t need to see him; she knew he watched her face even with her legs spread wide before him, the scent of her thick in the air. His voice never lost its calm, his breathing even, and she realized with a sudden clarity that she was observing him, too, and that he was letting her.

“You’re building up to an orgasm,” Sherlock said. “Don’t be afraid of it. Pursue it.”

This was about her instincts and her fears, so she pressed four fingers inside and ground the heel of her hand against her clit, knowing she would come and welcoming it. She sucked her fingers into her mouth just to feel her tongue curl between them, and she came, hot pulses that tore a litany of fuck sounds from her, unrestrained, unfeigned, and hers.

She looked at Sherlock as she came down, at his gentle, unchanged face, and she felt full of affection for him, grateful for what he’d offered her. He nodded once and stood, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Joan Watson was powerful, confident, and capable, and she could trust herself to act without permission or approval. She grabbed her laptop and brought up PornHub, took her time selecting a video and turning the volume up. Smiling to herself, she dug out the sack of toys and dumped them out on the bed, intent on trying out each one before the end of the day. Well, maybe not the intimidating anal beads. She’d save those for a truly adventurous day.


End file.
